


Can You Hear Them Wind-Chimes? (They Sing A Love Song Just For You)

by sarcastic_fina



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tells him she loves him when he's half-asleep; she can always tell when he's right on the edge because his hands stop moving in her hair. And he hums, that deep, bone-tired sound, and presses a sloppy kiss to the top of her head and says, "I know," in a drawl so thick it sounds like 'ahno.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Hear Them Wind-Chimes? (They Sing A Love Song Just For You)

  


She shouldn't be doing this.

But his hand on her thigh is warm and calloused and heavy; heavy not like a weight that settles in the pit of her stomach and resembles the shape of regret but heavy like it's molding the supple skin beneath it into the shape of his fingers and palm, like it was always meant to have a place there. She should knock it away. She should have done that the last time it was lying there, so innocently still while somehow being intimately moving. She stares at it awhile, in that indirect way. Her eyes turned down while her face still stays forward. She admires the shape of his fingernails, the way dirt and engine grease collect under them, how a few are chipped, misshapen, while others are chewed down to the quick. The opposite of hers, filed into quarter moons and meticulously taken care of.

She hates when they get too long or snag on things, like her hair. Which is why she should hate when he plays with her hair, a habit of his, threading it around his long fingers, combing it when she lays beside him, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to collect her breath as sweat beads on her skin and her chest heaves with effort. She wonders if he'd let her cut them; he's not the kind of guy who cares much about appearance. She wonders why she should care if he cuts them or not when she spends so much time wondering what she's even doing with him. Maybe not the what so much as the why.

She's not the kind of girl who does this thing. Then again, she does a lot of things she never thought a girl like her would. And it's not like she doesn't like doing them... It's not even that she doesn't like  _him_. But she never thought she'd be here, doing this, wondering these things. She likes rules and definition and she doesn't like letting questions linger in the air. She asks what needs answering. The problem is that words aren't what they share. Words aren't something he uses a whole lot. He talks when he wants to talk and oddly, it's usually right after they've come together in a flurry of arms and legs and hips grinding together, a condom wrapper tossed out of the way, her clothes in a tumbled mess on the floor, mixed in with his, the sheet and blanket shucked down to the end of the bed, their skin too warm, sticky, clinging together.

It's not flowery, romantic, poetic junk that he spouts, and she appreciates that. She's not sure what she'd do if he started some spiel about how beautiful she was or how he liked the way the moon shone on her face or the sun made her hair look like gold. That sort of thing is for couples, for lovers, and they're not that. They're something else. Something undefined. Something she spends too much time thinking on while dismissing in the same thought.

They are early mornings when the sun is just rising, warm on her toes while she climbs into his lap and takes him inside her, her hair a tangled mess from sleeping on it, from his fingers running through it for hours on end. Her eyes still crusty with sleep and mouth dry from snoring. She feels the sun creep up the back of her calves as they stretch and tighten, as she rocks herself on him, his hands splayed on her hips, fingertips digging in, chipped nails biting, scraping vaguely. His brow furrows and his long hair is tangled, falling over his face until she reaches out and drags it away from his half-closed eyes and his lazily curved mouth. She presses her hands into the pillow on either side of his head and leans over him, moving quicker, sharper, her breath coming out in thick pants as she pushes herself back, their chests rubbing together.

He watches her; he always watches her. She expects him to close his eyes, expects him to think of Lyla or Tyra, but instead he watches her. Sometimes his eyes wander down, take in her body, watch as his finger circles her clit, pinches it between thumb and forefinger, or her breasts as they sway and bounce with each jarring move she makes. But mostly he just watches her face, her mouth as it falls open on a silent cry of climax, her eyes as they flutter closed or watch him watching her.

She wonders what he's thinking. For all Dillon talks about how he's not a thinker, never the brightest bulb, just a head full of football and women and nothing else, she thinks there's more going on. She knows if she says this out loud to anyone they'll say it's the romantic notions of another girl under the Riggins spell. So she doesn't. She keeps it to herself. But she thinks his mind works differently; he's all loyalty and quiet bravery and a drive for a different kind of peace. The kind one finds in the tiny accomplishments; owning something of their own or getting that touchdown through hard work and determination. He never said he was going to change the world or go anywhere with football; he just wanted a piece of land to call his own, to carve out a life he could be happy with.

She thinks she gets that, gets why it appeals to him. It appeals to her too; she just never imagined that her little slice of heaven would be in Dillon. She questions that sometimes; late at night when she shows up on his doorstep and he just looks at her, a beer in hand and his jeans slung low on his hips. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question that never gets answered, and then he pushes the door open for her come inside. She ducks under his arm, drops her bag down on the floor and kicks off her shoes. He closes the door, finishes his beer in one long gulp, and slides in behind her, unbuttoning her jeans as he moves her hair out of the way with his chin and bends to kiss her neck.

She wonders about how awful it could really be, as he shoves her jeans down her thighs and cups her, pressing the heel of his palm against her clit, using the already wet fabric of her underwear to stimulate her. She shuffles out of her jeans and walks toward his bedroom, her eyes closed as she leans back into his solid chest, the fabric of his plaid shirt rubbing against her back as he drags her tank-top up over her head and tosses it away.

It's a good thing he moved out of Billy's place or she thinks they'd have been caught a few times over by now. They aren't very aware of their surroundings when they get like this; they have one destination in mind and they get to it, leaving a trail behind them. They knock into walls, bump into furniture, before finally they stumble through the door to his bedroom and she turns, ready to strip him down to match her nakedness.

She's past being insecure or uncomfortable with her nudity; she thinks that's easier with him since he's so quick to show his appreciation for all things naked-her. He's not vocal, preferring action to words, but she gets the drift when he spends long minutes tracing her collar bone with his fingers and the dip of her bellybutton with his tongue. When he sucks kisses along the backs of her knees and circles the delicate bones of her ankles, over and over until she can still feel his fingers long after they've drifted up, up, up to press her thighs open as his mouth ducks down and his tongue licks a long strip across her slit.

She likes his hair best then, it's something to grab onto, furl around her fingers; she squeezes and pulls and feels him smile against her as he takes her cues to either speed up or slow down.

There's flashes of thought, of wonderings, of brief fantasies of what life might be like, living in a little ranch house in the middle of a field all their own. Of coming home each day, the tires of her car kicking up dust as she ambles up the dirt driveway to park just short of the wrap-around porch. He's sitting in a chair, his feet propped up on the rail, one worn cowboy boot stacked on the other, a hat drawn down over his face to block out the too-hot sun, a bottle of beer sweating on the table next to him. He'd smile when she climbed the steps, that same lazy, silent drawl of a grin as he opened one eye, pushing his hat back to see her, raising an eyebrow in hello. And she'd cross the porch, drop her bag as she went, and climb into his lap, letting her head fall to his shoulder. His hands would rub her back, massage the stress away, getting into all those tense muscles and kneading them, just like he does now when she finishes work and goes to his place instead of her own.

It's a fantasy though. One she tries not to indulge in too much. She imagines there's been a lot of women before her, women who had the same thoughts on their mind. A desperate hope that she'd be the one to capture elusive Tim Riggins' heart, set him on the right path, and fill in the space under his arm, pressed up against his side, fingers hooked on the belt loops of his ragged jeans. But Riggins was a heartbreaker for a reason.

He's not Matt. He's not the kind-hearted, stuttering, sweet boy she met in high school. Her first love. A boy who proposed once and offered her up a world she never thought she wanted. A life like her parents, something she'd avoided for so long it seemed an impossible future. When she and Matt broke it off, she grieved. For the Julie who thought they were forever and the Matt who thought she was what he wanted. But they were young and still finding themselves and she loved her mom but she wasn't meant to be Tami 2.0. She needed to be Julie first, whoever that was.

Apparently, so far as she could tell, it was a woman who liked Tim Riggins. A woman who spent too many nights sitting in the back of his truck while he played beer can golf over the side of a cliff, with her reading her recent check-out from the local library, sometimes out loud when she found something she thought he'd like. He never stopped her, never encouraged her either, but she thought he liked it.

She was a woman who knew the story behind every scar on every inch of Tim's body. Who liked to listen to him hum to the radio and watch his fingers tap the beat on the steering wheel. A woman who had sleepovers with Gracie Belle every second Saturday, had a weekly dinner with her parents, and called Tyra every Wednesday night. She still didn't care much for football games but she went with Tim whenever he asked and she broke out a book if he was watching one at home.

It was the part where she spent time at his place not having sex that worried her. Sometimes she'd show up and he'd let her in before sitting on the couch and turning on ESPN. He'd pull her feet up into his lap when she sat down and she'd doze off as he rubbed them, waking up a few hours later, in bed, with him spooned around her. In the mornings, he'd make coffee and they'd share the newspaper, with her reading the arts and culture section and him the sports before he'd search out the realty page and see what was out there for land or ranch houses, telling her how many acres there were, or how many rooms and bathrooms each boasted. And she'd build a picture in her mind as she did the crossword puzzle, of a clawfoot tub in the bathroom and his and her sinks and lace curtains on the windows with little dancing figurines on the sills. And Tim's boots by the door, not quite lined up with the rest of the shoes because he just didn't take to order like she did.

She wonders what she's doing a lot. She wonders if others wonder. Her mom doesn't say much and eventually the pinching around her mouth and the furrow of her brows fades, like she starts believing what's happening isn't as bad as it seems. Like she starts thinking it might be a good idea. It's not like Julie's broadcasting anything; she didn't hire a skywriter to tell the gossipy, judgy world of Dillon that she and Tim were anything. But they all know. She wasn't hiding it, he definitely wasn't, and she knows he's not something she needs to feel bad about. She just wonders who she is and where she's going and why... why she picked him and he her. Why, after thinking Matt was what she wanted, did she go and find herself Tim, of all people, to spend her time with?

And then she thinks maybe she's smarter when she's not thinking. Because he sure does talk when it's dark, when night shrouds his bedroom to the point where she can only look in the direction his voice is coming from and not make out a single feature. He talks about work, about cars, about Billy and Mindy and their growing brood. He talks about football and what it felt like, once upon a time, to be a part of the Panthers. He talks about Lyla and Tyra and the many women who've come and gone in his life, some good memories, some not, some worth remembering, some better left forgotten. He talks about what he calls 'the many fuck ups' of his life and the few 'triumphs.' And about that piece of land he wants and the house he has already built in his head. Sometimes she thinks she can already smell the sawdust in the air as he builds. There's a mailbox in her head and it's got Riggins painted on the side; it sits at the end of the driveway, just short of the main road passing by the parcel of land, fenced off with wood posts and wire. When she closes her eyes, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, he asks her, "Can you hear the wind-chimes, Jules?" And she smiles and hums agreeably.

She's not this girl, but then she's not really a girl at all. She's a grown woman who likes to read John Steinbeck aloud in the back of his truck and watch the way his lips quirk and he pauses in his swing as she reads something he likes. A woman who likes to come over on nights he's babysitting Billy and Mindy's kids, making arts and crafts with them and watching Disney movies and playing board games while he spoils them with pizza (making sure to order vegetarian for her) and soda and junk food, smiling when they call him Uncle Timmy.

She's a woman who loves sex, all kinds of sex, quick and fast and slow and deep. Cramped in the truck or spread out over a bed. Slippery and awkward, laughing as they try not to slip in the shower or bent over the kitchen table, warm cheek pressed against the cool wood as his fingers dig into her hips and his hand spreads low on her stomach while he grunts her name.

She loves how he makes her feel and how his voice sounds lower, deeper in the dark. She loves how he plays with her hair, twirls it around his fingers. How he always, without fail, drags her into his side when they drive in his truck. She loves how his hand always finds her thigh, squeezing and tracing random shapes. She loves how his fingers tangle with hers when they walk and how he crowds in right behind her when they go shopping, his hands besides her on the cart, his chin on her shoulder when he gets bored. How he listens to her when she complains about work or her parents or anything really and doesn't judge. Just asks her what she wants to do, if she wants him to do something about any of it, if there's anything he can do to make it better.

She's a woman, not a girl, and maybe she does do this. Maybe she does let his hand settle onto her thigh while they sit down to dinner with her parents, with Gracie Belle talking a mile a minute and her dad humming and nodding even as he asks Tim if he's seen the new fullback play yet, if he thinks he's any good, all the while ignoring how his wife rolls her eyes and clucks her tongue and raises both her eyebrows in that 'no football at the dinner table' kind of way. Julie smiles and watches and pushes her thigh up into the pressure of Tim's fingers.

And when they leave and her mom kisses her cheek and her dad shakes Tim's hand and Gracie Belle reminds her for the fifth time that they're having a sleepover that weekend, she reaches for Tim's hand as they walk away and she asks him, "Do you hear that?"

He looks at her, his head cocked, but there's nothing but the distant sound of cars driving in the night and her dad telling her mom that he's got some game tape he has to look over.

"What?" he asks, brow raised.

And she answers, "Wind-chimes."

He smiles at her in that lazy way of his and he drags her in, his arm around her neck, her hair pulling a little under the weight of it, and he kisses her forehead. She closes her eyes and sighs, her arms looping around his waist. They walk to his truck and she wonders how she got here; how she ever found him after everything. She can't remember how it started or even when. She just knows that one day she was with Tim. He wasn't Riggins, #33, the Panthers fullback anymore just like she wasn't Little Taylor, Coach's daughter, QB1's girlfriend/fiancée. She was just Julie,  _Jules_ , who spent five out of seven nights a week in Tim's bed and sometimes dreamed about a ranch house to call their own.

It's a few years before they get it, in the mean time she moves out of her apartment and into his. He tells her it's not really a home until they christen every inch – Riggins Rules – she can't find any reason to argue. She becomes Aunty Jules to Billy and Mindy's kids and doesn't even find it odd when she drops by Billy's shop looking for Tim and Billy introduces her to a few of his mechanics as his sister-in-law, like things are already settled.

She finally stops wondering who she is and just starts  _being_. She lets herself talk. About her family and Matt and college and dreams long past. She talks about her favorite books and movies and what she loves and hates about football. She talks about Gracie and how once upon a time she really resented her. She talks about how happiness feels foreign sometimes but she likes it.

And then she gets flowery and poetic and his fingers dance over her heart, and she tells him she loves him when he's half-asleep; she can always tell when he's right on the edge because his hands stop moving in her hair. And he hums, that deep, bone-tired sound, and presses a sloppy kiss to the top of her head and says, "I know," in a drawl so thick it sounds like 'ahno.' She pinches his side and lifts her head to glare at him, because that is not an answer she's willing to accept, and he laughs, that deep, heavy chuckle, and turns her over onto her back with a surprising amount of strength considering how tired she knows he is.

He presses her hands back against the pillows, their fingers slotted together, and she can make out his face through a shaft of moonlight coming through the heavy curtains. His body is heavy on top of hers, but she likes that; she likes how familiar and warm he is, how easily he fits between her legs that hitch over his hips like they'd always been there. He kisses her nose, smiling as she wrinkles it, and says, "You know I love you."

She does, she just wants to hear it. "I know what?" she asks.

He smirks, and he's never too tired to show her how much. He drops his head down and mouths wet kisses down her chest and she wiggles underneath him, arching up when his lips are just short of her nipple, pebbled tightly, wanting. He laughs as his tongue circles it, teeth just barely scraping over her skin, and she squeezes his hips with her legs until he says, "Okay, okay..." before sucking and flicking his tongue and angling his hips just right before he slips inside her, hard and thick and thrusting shallowly before finding that rhythm and digging in deep, knowing exactly what she likes and how to get her there.

She's right on the edge and her mouth hangs open on an endless pant as he kisses her, their lips never parting as he says on a ragged breath, "Love you Jules."

She comes on a cry of his name, squeezing his hands so hard her fingers throb.

He's not far behind her, his hands letting go of hers to grip the pillow behind her head as he leans up and changes the angle. She drags her nails up his back and buries her fingers in his hair, gripping and tugging while she kisses his neck, sucking and nipping and soothing away the sting with her tongue until his hips stutter and he's grunting her name before he collapses, panting against her damp skin, trying to catch his breath.

Lying next to each other again, no words needing to be said, she's pretty sure she really does hear those wind-chimes.

When they do find the right house, it's a fixer-upper that he plans on adding on to and they both know they'll be paying off for a good long while. She commits to it though and she loves the smell of saw dust just like she knew she would. She smiles every time she sees his boots near the door but never quite lined up. It feels right when they have family barbecues with her parents. They have Billy and Mindy over on the weekends, the brothers and kids playing an impromptu game of football in the field. The kids come out once a month and share the spare room, another being added slowly, when Billy and Tim have time off from work and enough energy to get anything done. Her dad lends a helping hand, making not-so-subtle hints that they'd been together awhile and her hand was missing a key piece of jewelry for it to sit right with him.

Tim hangs her engagement ring from the singing wind-chimes. She finds it when she comes home to see him sitting on the porch, booted feet stacked on the rail, beer on the table next to him and a ragged Panthers hat low over his eyes. It catches her attention, the setting sun making it twinkle as it sways in the breeze. She lets it swing into her hand and just stares at it for a while, smiling to herself before she slips it on her finger and climbs into his lap, thinking briefly that she'll have to paint over the 'Taylor' that's written on the mailbox above Riggins.

"That a yes?" he asks, fingers rubbing her lower back, working out the kinks.

"An emphatic one," she replies on a soft sigh, pressing her face against his neck.

He slaps her ass lightly and says, "Good."

She grins, letting her eyes open and grabs up his beer to take a long drag. He plays with her hair, pulling it out of the ponytail she keeps it in for work. She thinks the person she grew into was just who she was always supposed to be. Happiness isn't so foreign anymore and confusion feels like so long ago that she doesn't wonder how they got together so much as why they never did it any sooner. But what if's don't get her anything but a headache so she takes what she has and she enjoys it.

"Finished up the extra room today," he tells her. "Paint should be dry by now."

She sits back and drops his half-empty beer back to the table. "Nothing's finished until we christen it," she tells him, standing up from his lap. "Riggins Rules."

He grins and joins her, hands on her hips and head falling to the crook of her neck where his mouth lingers, warm and familiar. "Like the way you think, Jules."

Hours later, with Tim fast asleep beside her, his arm trapped under her head, fingers tangled in her hair, she admires her ring in the sliver of moonlight, listening to the wind-chimes and Tim's snoring, and she smiles.

She's really doing this, really living this, and it's the best decision she's ever made.

She never regrets it or him or the way her life turns out.

The mailbox reads Riggins and it fits her better than she ever expected. She grows old on a ranch with two sons and a daughter to call her own. She and Tim have their fair share of disagreements and nothing is always smooth sailing but they stick it out. She fits in that place under his arm and by his side just like his fingers fit in her hair and on her thigh.

And the wind-chimes, they never stop singing for them.

[ **End**.]


End file.
